The Frightful Fair
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John talks Sherlock into going to the fair. After all, Sherlock is the one who scared John's latest girlfriend away. Now, John loves the fair. Candy floss, stupid games, and the rides. Sherlock, however, doesn't like sweets, can't understand why people play the games, and can't tolerate being stuck on the rides. How will it all work out? Rated T for language.
1. Welcome to the Fair, Sherlock

**The Frightful Fair**

"You busy today?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

"Figured we could go to the fair," John said, looking across the sitting room to Sherlock. The detective was sprawled out on the couch, somewhat lethargic and dead to the world. Except now, he had tilted his head to look at John like he had grown another eye.

"What?"

"The fair. You know, games? Rides? Food?"

"I know what the fair is. I'm asking you why you're suggesting it," Sherlock replied, looking back at the ceiling. John could see that he had already dismissed the idea.

"Well, let's see. You're the reason that I don't have a girlfriend to take with me. We have a little extra money since you solved that last case. And you just said that you have nothing on today."

"Between having a lie-in and going to a fairgrounds stuffed with sweaty, sweets-covered people? I'll take the lie-in, thanks."

John frowned. "You never want a lie-in, Sherlock. Come on. You can... assess how long it takes for the average human child to... demolish a cloud of candy floss or to lick the caramel off of an apple."

"Lick the caramel off an apple? Why would caramel be on an apple? Anyway, it just drips off."

"Not... not that type of caramel, Sherlock. It's not drizzled, it's just..." John shrugged. "Haven't you ever had a caramel apple?"

"Sweets, no," Sherlock replied with no interest.

"Come on, Sherlock! I don't wanna go alone," John griped. "You insulted my last girlfriend out of the flat. I'm still angry about that, by the way."

"She was an idiot."

"Well, idiot or not, I don't have a date for fair now. So, the least you can do is-"

"Fine."

The agreement was so abrupt that John's attention snapped back to Sherlock too quickly. He thought for a moment that he had imagined it, before Sherlock rolled to his feet.

"Y-You'll come?" John asked, blinking. "Just to get this straight."

"I suppose I could experience it once. Likely that it's rubbish," Sherlock replied, padding back to his bedroom. "Be downstairs in five."

John blinked again and, not willing to back out now that Sherlock had agreed, went to get changed.

* * *

It was a busy day at the fairgrounds. John should have known it would be, even more since it was a weekend. Busy or not, John loved the fair. Of course, he wasn't the one with a social problem.

"Two children, one young, one older. The older recently took up drugs, the father knows about it since he supplies them. Mother doesn't know but has suspicions, nonetheless, doesn't care as she's having an affair with her son's girlfriend's father."

"Sherlock..."

"What? It's obvious."

"It's really not."

"If you'd just look at their shirt cuffs-"

"I'm not looking at their shirt cuffs, Sherlock. Behave," John hissed. When he made to take a right, Sherlock gravitated towards the family that he had been analyzing. "Sherlock, pay attention," he grumbled, pinching the shirt cuff of his flat mate and pulling him towards him.

"I am paying attention. You're boring. I'd rather follow them."

"Thanks," John muttered, letting go of Sherlock's cuff when someone looked at them twice. "Just stay with me. I don't need to worry about what kind of trouble you're getting into."

"I never get into trouble."

"Yeah, right." John slipped his hands into his pockets, looking down the aisles. "Want to eat?"

"Not really."

"Try a caramel apple?"

"John. I do not like sweets."

"A big part of the fair is sweets. You have to try something." He paused before heading to the left. "I want candy floss."

"Why would you want candy floss? You're a grown man."

"What's your point, Sherlock?" John replied, not looking back to the detective. He knew he was following him. Despite Sherlock's complaints, John knew that the detective would follow him now that the other distractions had been dispelled. Until he found something else distracting, that was. "Candy floss is a sort of good for any age type of thing."

"I do not agree."

"Of course you don't."

Five minutes later, they had settled down at one of the empty tables and John was picking at his candy floss heartily. Sherlock's eyes were on the crowd, no doubt taking in every thing that every person had done or would do.

"That's... odd," Sherlock said after some time of silence, and when John glanced up, the detective was watching him. Immediately, John began to feel all too self-conscious.

"What?" he asked, brushing his fingers across his lips in case he had floss on his face.

"Candy floss. It looks like it consists of air and cotton and yet, people enjoy it."

"It tastes much better, I assure you." John paused. "Did you want to try it, because I'm not going to offer mine to you. It'll look too much like we're sharing. I'll buy you one if you want."

"Uhm, _no_," Sherlock replied in a tone of annoyance, looking back to the crowd. John shrugged and pulled strands of floss from the diminishing mass. "What do we do next?" Sherlock continued.

"Games? Rides? I dunno. Whatever we come across, I guess."

"What kind of games could they possibly have here that still interest you?"

John raised his chin slightly, offering a smile. "Shooting."

"Excuse me?"

"The shooting games... You have to shoot down or hit a target. They're my speciality."

"I feel like there's a sense of something unfair here, John. Do they know that you were a soldier?"

"Why would I share my life with them? They don't care, either. If I can shoot, that's all they need to know." He paused, licking the sugar off of the paper cone. "Besides, most games here are rigged, or really hard to win."

"Probably not so hard to win as it is people play them wrong," Sherlock muttered.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Think you can win the ring toss?"

"The what?"

"You really didn't have a childhood, did you?" John mused. Sherlock gave him a _look_ in return. "Well, okay, you get these little rings about so big, and you have to throw them to try and hook them around the neck of a beer bottle."

"What are the rings made of?"

"Plastic? I guess."

"The plastic will just bounce off of the glass. Why would people expect to win that kind of game?"

"Well, you just said that it wasn't the game so much as the person."

"Naturally."

"So, you could win it."

"Of course."

"Wanna prove it?"

"Why should I?"

"Because I don't believe you."

"Why should I care if you don't believe me?"

"Because I think you're wrong."

And John had him.

Sherlock's expression changed slightly, eyebrows furrowing only the slightest bit. There was annoyance in his eyes, although with a small bit of confusion. Probably wondering how John could doubt him, after all this time. John didn't mind. It wasn't anything big. He certainly didn't care. But Sherlock cared about how John thought he was wrong. And John wanted to see Sherlock play a stupid carnival game that was all chance and not something that the detective could control.

Sherlock stood, gracefully although not altogether unabashed. "Lead the way, John."

John grinned.

* * *

**I said I was going to write a fair!fic for each day that I went to our County Fair. I've been there three days, so I have two more chapters to write up. I'll probably be going to the fair once more this year, so a fourshot? If I can manage. This is humour, by the way, although trying not to make it crack, so expect humour. It's all going to be very lighthearted and non-romantic, so, if you think you'd like that, follow/favourite/review away!**

**Coming soon: Sherlock finds a new intense _dislike_ for any type of carnival game. John gets to show Sherlock up, just once. Stop shouting, Sherlock! It's just a game! Ugh! What- Where are you going? Home! I thought you wanted to play that shooting game? I... I'm curious to see a normal human playing a game. Is this some sort of repentance, Sherlock? **

**Thanks for reading! I'm grateful for any reviews!**


	2. These Games are Ridiculous, John!

"This is ridiculous! The angles are all wrong! There's a technical way to throw it, but the rings are too small to properly fall onto the neck of the bottle!"

"Oh- okay, Sherlock, okay. Calm down, come on!" John grabbed Sherlock's arm, all but dragging him away from the tent.

"You're running a game that cannot be won!"

"It's just chance, mate," drawled the man running the game. "Luck isn't on your side."

"There is _no _chance in it! You can't win!" Sherlock yelled.

"_Sherlock!_" John hissed, giving the detective's arm another tug. Sherlock faltered in being rooted to the spot, and took the step that John was trying to make him take. He shoved John's hand off, brushing off the sleeve of his coat.

"This is ridiculous, John. The games are not able to be won," Sherlock grumbled, striding away.

"Yes, well, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't yell at the game pieces when you don't win," John muttered, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

"I wasn't yelling."

"I'm sure they heard you clear down the fairway."

"No, the music and the yelling of the children mixing with the food vendors and their processes would have drowned my voice out before the fourth vendor down the way."

"Okay, Sherlock," John replied, dragging him around the corner. Only then did he drop the _I don't know anyone here, including the man at my side_ charade, sighing heavily.

"You're annoyed."

John looked up at Sherlock. "No, not annoyed."

"Embarrassed?"

"Mildly."

"Why?"

"Forget it," John replied, starting to walk again.

"Where are we going now?"

"I'm beginning to think that we should go home," John muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets again.

"What? Why?"

"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock, maybe because you're yelling at the games, causing a scene, ribbing on the vendors, and complaining about everything in general?" His voice was laced with annoyance; he even heard it himself. He didn't need Sherlock's gaze on him, eyes steady and calculating, to know that he sounded upset.

"You wanted to play the game. The, uhm, shooting one, right?"

John chanced a glance up to Sherlock, wondering if this was somehow Sherlock's form of apology. Sherlock wasn't looking at him, however, and considering Sherlock didn't apologize, ever, John doubted it.

"I was going to."

"Any good at it?"

"Very good at it, to be frank."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, you can continue being embarrassed or you can go play a silly game. It would be interesting to see if any of these rubbish games can actually be won."

It seriously, seriously sounded as if Sherlock was trying to make up for his outburst. Nah. That definitely couldn't be right.

"Uh, sure. I guess." John shrugged. "I'll see if I can win something."

"So, what can you win?"

"Plushies, money, different things, really..."

"And you just have to shoot a target?"

"Yeah, but... it's a bit difficult. I'll just let you figure it out. Come on."

John found the game easily enough. There was no one in line, only the person running the vendor was there.

"So, what does one do to win this game?" Sherlock muttered.

"Well, there's those three cans-"

"There's money on them."

"Yes? Yes, that's a fifty."

"You can win fifty pounds from knocking over some cans? Interesting. I'll try."

John was going to tell him, going to tell him that knocking those cans over were a lot harder to do than it looked. The cans were heavier than they seemed, and there was a special place that you had to hit them- you couldn't just aim and shoot randomly. Consequently-

Sherlock didn't excel.

When only one can fell off the platform, John couldn't help but laugh at Sherlock's expression. He couldn't tell if his friend looked irate or... bemused.

"No, no, I told you it was a lot harder than it looked, Sherlock," John muttered, stepping up and taking the gun from Sherlock's hands. "I'll try it," he said to the man running the vendor and passing over the money to play.

He took a step back, brought the rifle to his shoulder-

All three cans clanked to the ground after John pulled the trigger. All in all, he couldn't tell who looked more impressed: the man who was now handing him the fifty and babbling on about good shots, or Sherlock, who was watching him through critical, but surprised, eyes.

John grinned as he tucked the note into his pocket. "Not everything is impossible, Sherlock."

"Hm," was Sherlock's only response.

"I'll treat you to something. What do you want?"

"I'm still not hungry," Sherlock replied automatically, voice bored again.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock."

"No, thanks."

"Deep-fried cola?"

"_What?_"

"Deep-fried cola."

"You can't deep-fry cola." Ever the rational one, wasn't he? Couldn't Sherlock just accept it?

"Apparently, you can."

"But you can't."

"You want to try it?"

Sherlock paused. He was intrigued. John could tell. "No."

"You're sure?"

Another pause. "I'm sure."

"I'll go halves with you," John stated.

"Done," Sherlock replied, starting to walk again.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock replied, looking back with a half-annoyed look. "I thought we were going to have an experiment," he said, frowning at John's lack of movement.

"You're walking the wrong way."

Sherlock frowned deeper, turning around to join John.

* * *

**Sherlock can't play carnival games. John finally beats Sherlock at something. [Incidentally, I hate those types of shooting games. Hate hate hate. Especially when they taunt you with money to be won.] Deep-fried Coca-Cola is good, by the way. And, yes, I'm going by my fair, in the U.S. I don't know what kind of fair/food/games/rides the U.K. has. So, don't think too hard if you've been to an English fair.**

**Coming soon: Can Sherlock bypass the impossibility of the situation and just ****_eat_**** the damn fried food? And the merry-go-round? Why is it so merry? It's boring! Just shut up, Sherlock. Enjoy the fair.**

**Thanks for the reviews/favourites/follows so far! It's appreciated!**


	3. You Always Do This to Me, Sherlock

"Cherry cola."

"Yes," John agreed.

"It's just supposed to be cola."

"Well, there's cherry juice on it, so..."

"It's overpoweringly sweet. This is how people rot out their teeth."

"Brush well tonight."

"Obviously."

Sherlock licked whipped cream off of his fork thoughtlessly, although John knew full well that the detective was probably thinking of three different things about this treat at once.

"Well?"

"Hm?" Sherlock looked back at John.

"Do you like it?"

"It's... sweet," Sherlock said lamely.

"And you don't like sweet things. Right."

"It's okay, I suppose," Sherlock replied.

"You don't like it," John said.

"No, I said it was fine!" Sherlock retorted, stabbing a piece of the fried batter as if to prove it. "It's sweet, but it's fine," he grumbled through a mouthful of fried batter, whipped topping, cinnamon, cola flavouring, and cherry juice.

"You're such a child," John observed, resisting the urge to laugh as Sherlock proceeded to get whipped topping on his cheek and seem not to notice. "You have a little-"

"I _know_," Sherlock interjected, stabbing his fork into the pastry before wiping the whipped topping away. "It's disgustingly messy."

"Shall I just finish it off, then?"

Sherlock shrugged, attempting to wipe his fingers off on the napkin. Sticky syrup and paper napkin didn't go well, as John (and most likely Sherlock) knew too well. Sherlock scowled when the paper ripped and got stuck on his fingers. John just laughed. "The toilet's in that building over there." He thumbed in the general direction.

All in all, it wasn't a terribly lost cause, was it? John delved deeper into his pastry as he sat alone, pondering what he could do next. Or rather, what Sherlock would let him do next. To be fair, the detective wasn't being so bad, though. For once. John wondered what kind of hell he was going to have to endure once they got back to Baker Street...

It took five minutes of pondering for John to realize that Sherlock wasn't back. No more than had he thought that, he started laughing. He'd forgotten to warn Sherlock that fairground toilets were less than savoury and usually came with long lines, hand-washing or not, and most people weren't polite about waiting.

"Oh well..." John muttered, unable to wipe the smirk off his face as he scraped the last of the cola syrup from the paper and onto his fork. "More of silence," he mused, licking the syrup off.

Not two minutes later, John had resorted to drumming his fingers against the top of the picnic table, watching the crowd. He heard rather than saw Sherlock slip back onto the bench, sighing quietly.

"Please tell me that you didn't get in a water fight with some poor sod in the toilet," John said genially, not looking back at him.

"No," Sherlock replied curtly. "Lines are atrocious, though."

"Yep. Don't drink anything before or during your stay here," John stated, stretching as he stood. "Shall we?"

"What next?" Sherlock replied, standing fluidly.

"Do I detect a hint of excitement coming from you, Sherlock?" John teased, leading the way back towards the amusement part of the fairgrounds.

"I'm merely interested."

"Sure you are. Let's hit the rides."

"Do I dare ask what kind of ride here interests you?"

"The ferris wheel is nice... if you have a date. A female date," John added quickly.

"Boring."

"Roller coaster?"

"Equally boring, but less slow."

"Ever been on one?"

"No. John, don't you realize what this is?"

"What? A roller coaster?" John questioned, frowning as he looked at Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock replied in a tone of obvious annoyance. "This," he said, gesturing his hands to everything. "The fair."

"Uhh... What are you getting at?"

"It's a traveling dating spot."

"Excuse me?" John replied, stopping in the middle of the fairway. "A dating spot?"

"Sitting all too close with someone in a ferris wheel cart? Being terrified and clinging to a person in the roller coaster? Sharing candy cotton and drinks and holding hands-"

"Please stop," John muttered, feeling like shrinking in on himself, or just finding a hole to bury himself in. "People already talk enough anyway. You and I walking around out here is bound to bring up questions, anyway."

Sherlock shrugged less-than-delicately, looking up at the tracks of the roller coaster. "Approximately forty-seven miles per hour, give or take the mass of people inhabiting it-"

"Don't," John said quickly, "analyze the coaster. I don't want to know what sort of... technical difficulties there could be," he muttered, dodging out of the line of traffic to go to the ticket booth.

"All you people just do this without thinking of the consequences, don't you?" Sherlock questioned, following after him.

"We try not to think of possible impending doom. But you should like it. You like adrenaline and thrills and all that," John replied. He glanced back towards the line ahead of him, catching the eye of a woman ahead of them. She smiled at him. John smiled sheepishly and waved a bit.

"Oh, God," muttered Sherlock, sighing heavily.

"Hey, don't even!" John retorted, rounding on Sherlock quickly. "Don't forget you're the reason that I don't have a girlfriend."

"Am I?" he replied.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll be over here," Sherlock muttered, slinking away. John stared after him, frowning.

"Having troubles?" came a voice ahead of him. John looked back to find the woman from before standing next to him now, smiling faintly.

"Yeah," John replied, looking between where Sherlock had vanished and the woman. "Yeah, uhm, John." He offered his hand. "John Watson."

"Teresa," she replied, shaking his hand. "Who's your friend?"

"Oh, uh, Sherlock. He's never been here before. I think he's a bit nervous."

"He's never been here before?"

"Nope. Never been to a fair at all. I dragged him out of the flat and paid his admission. He seems to be enjoying himself."

"Oh? So, you, you live together, do you?"

"Yeah, we- Teresa?" John frowned as the newly-acquainted Teresa made a near silent _oh_ under her breath before turning away. "No, we're not-!" He sighed as she continued walking away, scrubbing his face with his hands. Damn Sherlock. With him, nothing was ever simple.

He got tickets for the ride, joining the detective a few moody moments later. Sherlock looked down at him, eyebrows arching.

"What's wrong?"

"I hate you," John replied grumpily. "Come on."

"What did I do? John?"

John just ignored him, heading for the roller coaster line.

* * *

**UGH. I hate putting in non-canon characters. Therefore, I couldn't make her stay. But, I needed to include something gay-induced awkward, so two sides of the coins.**

**P.S. Deep-fried coca-cola, no one seems to know what this is. So, it might just be local treat. Anyway, it's deep-fried batter, covered in cola-flavoured syrup, topped with whipped cream, cinnamon, and a cherry [and enough cherry juice with it to gag you]. It's really, really sweet, but really good [despite my dislike of cherry juice]. It's just so rich that you probably shouldn't eat all of it yourself. xD**

**Coming soon: Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay? H-Hey! Fine, John... You don't look fine! Sit down! I said I'm fine...! You are not! Leave me alone; where are we going now? If you're sure you're okay, I guess we'll just walk; there's nothing else- What's that? What's what? The spinny thing? The carousel? Yeah, it's the carousel, the merry-go-round. Merry? How is it merry? Sherlock...**

**Thanks! **


	4. I'm Fine, John! I'm Always Pale!

"John..." Sherlock moaned.

"Okay, okay, hang on. No- give me your hand!"

John helped Sherlock over to a nearby bench, taking most of the detective's weight on his good shoulder. Sherlock sank onto the bench heavily, eyes closed and hair disheveled.

"Stay here, I'll get you some water," John said sternly. "Okay?"

Sherlock didn't respond, only licked his lips slightly before placing his head in his hands. John took that as an affirmative. He hurried off to the nearest concession stand.

It seemed that Sherlock couldn't handle roller coasters- rather, he couldn't handle roller coasters after eating. He'd withheld the worst of his nausea, or whatever he was feeling, he wouldn't say, until after the ride, when he'd stumbled on the steps out and John noticed that his friend looked a bit more pale than usual. And the fact that Sherlock looked about to crash to his knees didn't help for Sherlock's mask of perfection.

John bought a bottle of ice water and doubled back to Sherlock, sinking onto the bench. "Drink this. Sherlock? Hey, drink this; you'll feel better."

He persuaded to talk the unruly, sickened man into taking the water bottle and sipping at it. They dissolved into a somewhat awkward silence after that. Until, after a few minutes, Sherlock screwed the cap back on the bottle and sat up a little straighter.

"Better?" John asked, looking at him.

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Thanks," he muttered, not looking at John. "I... I don't think I'm going to be partaking in that again."

"It might be just because you ate something, Sherlock. You're all fragi-"

"Don't say that I'm fragile."

"Well, you're a roller coaster novice, then."

"And you're not?" Sherlock replied indignantly.

"I have frequented them a few times."

"You're-" Sherlock broke off abruptly.

John looked at him quickly, thinking that he was about to get sick. "You okay?"

"_I'm_ fine," Sherlock retorted calmly. "I was just about to say that you must be insane to do this often."

"Sherlock, I live with _you_. I can't do anything considered more insane than that."

Sherlock smirked, finally looking towards John. His colour was a bit better, back to its normal pallor. He didn't have the slight panicked look in his eyes like he had had and he didn't look like he was about to spew half-digested cola-flavoured syrup and fried batter onto the grass.

"So... what now?" Sherlock asked, passing the bottle between his hands.

"All that and you don't want to go home?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, again, stubbornly. "This is interesting. I've found that eating and roller coasters don't go well together."

"Maybe you just have motion sickness," John half teased, smiling faintly.

"I most assuredly do not," Sherlock replied tartly.

"But maybe-"

"Nope."

John laughed quietly, hauling himself to his feet. "Come on. Let's walk. I got a couple of extra tickets but there's really nothing else here that interests me."

"What's that?"

John looked at Sherlock and followed his pointing finger. "Oh, the carousel. Merry-go-round. It's for kids."

"Why is it called a merry-go-round? Not everyone's merry. Look, there's someone crying."

"It's just... called that, Sherlock," John replied dryly. "I thought you were all powerful in knowledge. Shouldn't you know why it's called a merry-go-round? There's probably some story behind it."

"You know that I don't concern myself with the trivia," Sherlock replied, coming to a standstill.

"Oi! Don't just stand there, you nutter!" was the griping complaint from some burly man behind Sherlock. He gave the detective a dirty look, in which one Sherlock returned, magnificently, before walking around the lifesize humanesque traffic cone.

"Sherlock," John muttered, grabbing the detective's arm and pulling him out of the line of traffic. "You can't just stop in the middle of incoming traffic."

"Why not? This isn't a street. No one is driving a car, so there's no reason why one shouldn't stop in the middle of the aisle."

"It's rude, and people _will_ yell at you," John replied, nodding towards the man who had called Sherlock out.

"I don't care if they yell at me."

"That dirty look you shot at him stated otherwise."

"He was being rude."

"See? You don't like it when people are rude."

"Actually, I don't care. I just thought it was wrong of him to call me out when he is the one who left his wife and two month old child lost in the middle of a crowd three aisles back without telling them where he was going. In actuality, he's going to meet his mistress of... three years, six years younger than him, and planning on taking her to some secluded part of the lot to-"

"_Sherlock_," John hissed, resisting the very strong urge to place his hand over the detective's mouth.

"What?"

"Tact," he muttered, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Tact."

"Truth prevails over tact, John."

"No, no, it shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because it shouldn't!"

"It does!"

"Not in society!"

"Then society is wrong!"

Now they had a group of people staring at them. John didn't realize it until after Sherlock had shouted the ending statement in their domestic, and when he did, he immediately locked his eyes back onto Sherlock's. Sherlock was just half glaring, eyes locked on John, but John knew his face was turning more red by the moment. Sherlock was too embarrassing to be out with public. And plus the fact that they were having a staring contest as if they were trying to see into each other's souls didn't help. But John would rather stare at Sherlock than stare at the rest of the people staring at _them_.

Sherlock, who hadn't seemed to take notice of the crowd or John's embarrassment, sighed after a minute and looked away from John. "Where to now."

"I think home."

"What? I don't want to go home; there's nothing to do at home. If we're going home, I want to take a candied apple with me to experiment on when I get back."

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, almost in disbelief. He hadn't even wanted to come in the first place and now... He sighed. Well. Being out in the wide-open air had to be better for the detective than slouching about on the couch with nicotine patches. He supposed.

"Alright, we don't have to leave. Come on."

"Where are we going?" Sherlock questioned, stepping after John, his Belstaff coat swishing after him as he walked.

* * *

**Had to get one we're-going-to-stare-into-each-others-souls-as-the-rest-of-the-world-disappears moment. And those are canon. You know they are.**

**John? What is all this? There's goldfish over here. Yes, it's a game to win fish. Why would people want to win fish? A pet, Sherlock, they're pets. Oh... Let's get a fish, John. No! Why not? Because you just want to kill it! Do not... Yes, you do. Let's go see the entertainment. Entertainment? A band. Oh, dull.**

**Keep the reviews coming! And P.S... this isn't going to be a fourshot, anymore. I've having too much fun. Thanks for reading!**


	5. I Said No, Sherlock!

John let his eyes rove over the crowd, over the people. Sherlock was right, he really was right. Humanity was really rather... Well, society was toppling in on itself. It seemed like everywhere John looked, there was someone worse off than they should have been. And it wasn't homeless people or anything like that, because John had a soft spot for people who had tried and failed. He was just seeing a bit of... too young women being pregnant or the telltale signs of drug use and that lark. They had just passed through a cloud of smoke that seemed to be coming from a cigarette when John starting coughing, quickly realizing that whatever it was that they had walked though, it hadn't been cigarette smoke. He thought that he must have made some derogatory remark, when he'd gotten his breath back, because Sherlock had a telltale smirk plastered on his face. It just screamed _I told you so_.

"I understand why you don't like to go out in public places, yes," John muttered quietly, his statement only meant for Sherlock's ears.

"Like I said, it makes for too much stupid," Sherlock replied just as quietly, the smile apparent in his voice. "I'm glad you've finally realized the obvious, be it as it may you arrived at the conclusion far too late."

"But not everyone is so bad," John muttered back, feeling the urge to at least defend the part of humanity that wasn't failing.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, although he wasn't in the exact tone of agreement. "There is you to counter the stupidity."

John looked sideways at Sherlock. The detective was studiously ignoring him, or at least, too fixated on the crowd to notice John's look. "I thought I was an idiot."

"You're your own brand of stupid."

"Oh," John replied in a tone of obviousness as he looked back ahead. "Okay."

"You are marginally competent."

John looked back at Sherlock, a smile lifting his lips. "Only marginally?" He was teasing Sherlock, which was potentially a dangerous thing to do in the best of circumstances, but he knew he could get away with it. He knew he could get away with it because Sherlock was almost praising him in his own way, which was something that Sherlock normally didn't do, either.

"Don't push it, John," Sherlock replied. "What is that?" he asked smoothly, pointing to one of the game booths.

"Huh? Oh, uh, the goldfish game. You try to throw the ping pong balls into the little bowls, and if you do, you win a fish."

"A fish."

"Yeah, a little goldfish."

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together, and John was beginning to recognize the look that was blossoming in Sherlock's eyes-

"_No_," John said aloud, when he noticed that look.

"I haven't said anything," Sherlock said, his head swiveling around to look at John.

"No, but you're thinking that I should play the game because you're _curious_ about the fish," John said. "And I'm not going to play it."

Sherlock watched him evenly for a moment before striding away, towards the fish booth, pulling out his wallet.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, following after him. "I said no! You'll just kill it! You're not dissecting a fair fish or whatever else you plan to do with it!" He paused as Sherlock handed over the money. "And I'm not taking care of it, either! I always wanted a dog, not a fish." He muttered the last part to himself, watching Sherlock turning a ping pong ball over and over in his hand. "Just throw it, Sherlock," he said, reaching into the bucket and grabbing a ping pong ball before Sherlock could stop him.

"John! Don't just aimlessly throw it. Look, you wasted it!"

"Oh, God, what does it matter, Sherlock?" John laughed, reaching for another as Sherlock jerked the bucket away from him. "Come on, you're thinking too much!"

"John, stop it, you're behaving like a child!"

"Oh, that's great, coming from you!" John joked, still reaching for the bucket. It was a lost cause- Sherlock was too tall and had too long of arms and John was too short and had too short of arms.

"John!"

Ten minutes later found them uncomfortably seated on a hard, wooden bench in the middle of a small, unkept room.

"Are you happy now, Sherlock? Did that fit your little experiment? See how much ruckus you can cause before they call security?" John muttered. It had been all fun and games trying to get Sherlock to share the game with him; until security had shown up and put them here, the 'time-out room', as Sherlock had dubbed it. They had thought that they had been really arguing. If they were laughing (well, at least, one of them had been laughing), how could they have been really arguing?!

"Well, it's certainly..." Sherlock trailed off, frowning. "These people certainly don't understand the simple difference between need to be locked up and normal citizen."

John raised his eyebrows in Sherlock's general direction. Normal citizen, indeed...

"Now why, when I got called to come handle two unruly grown men at the fair, did I know it was going to be you two?" floated a recognizable voice through the door as it opened.

"Greg." John breathed a sigh of relief, standing. "I have never been so glad to see you."

"Well, I should say so. Had it been anyone else, they probably would have carted you downtown."

"We weren't really arguing."

"I doubted that you were, frankly." Lestrade looked away from John, to Sherlock, whom was still seated on the bench, arms crossed.

"He's pouting," John explained.

"I am a consulting detective. I find it insulting that I'm the one getting locked up for something as trivial as this." He looked past Lestrade, to the officer who had brought them here in the first place. "Did you know that someone is walking around _your_ fairgrounds smoking illegal substances? Perhaps you should less worry about goldfish troubles and focus on that."

"Goldfish troubles?" Lestrade asked, looking from Sherlock to the other two men.

"We found these two arguing at the goldfish game."

Greg looked back at John and Sherlock.

John held up his hands. "I told him no."

Greg sighed as though the whole ordeal of finding Sherlock and John here was mentally draining. "You're free to go," he said, waving them out. John nodded in thanks, brushing out of the room. Sherlock followed suit, although John heard him sniff disdainfully as they passed the arresting officer.

"What are you two doing out here, anyway?" Lestrade muttered as he followed them out. "Doesn't seem like your thing, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed. "Do you think I'd come here of my own choice?"

Lestrade looked at John. John shrugged. "We had nothing on. Figured I might as well. He's having fun, so that's... good," he finished lamely.

"Fun..." Sherlock echoed.

"Don't start, Sherlock," John warned. He looked back at Greg. "Didn't think you'd show up."

"I was going back to base when they called for someone. I was closest. Besides, like I said, I had this feeling..."

John grinned sheepishly.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said from up ahead.

"Where are we going now?" he called, hastening to catch up before they got separated.

Sherlock just turned briefly, drawing his hand out of his pocket to show John what he had in his hand. On his palm sat two ping pong balls.

John groaned. "Not this again."

"There's a police officer with us. I have to return them," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, turning to continue walking.

John looked sideways at Greg.

Lestrade shrugged. "He's right, you know. Besides, I'm here now. Might as well see the great Sherlock Holmes versus a carnival game," he said, the laughter creeping into his voice as they followed their consulting detective back to the games.

* * *

**Had to throw a little friendly, all-tolerating Lestrade in there. I have big plans for the next couple chapters. Lestrade's stickin' around for one more chapter!**

**Hang on a second, Sherlock.  
What now?  
It's laser tag.  
Tag with lasers? What's the point?  
Hey, Greg...  
Yeah?  
Are you thinking what I'm thinking?  
... Just let me take my badge off first. **

**As for your reviews so far, ta! **


	6. John, He's Coming To Get You!

"Hey, Sherlock, wait up."

"What _now_?" Sherlock muttered in irritation, flashing a glance back at John.

John frowned, looking up at him. "Sherlock, the goldfish aren't going anywhere.

"But it's an _experiment_, John-"

"And it's not going anywhere." He turned away from Sherlock, directing his gaze to where Greg was paused at. He heard Sherlock's generalized 'what don't you let me just get on the experiment, you don't understand how my mind handles it when I have something to do and I can't' speech that John had heard many times over, but he was more interested at joining Greg at the fence he was leaning on. "What's up?"

Greg nodded towards the fenced-in area. "Laser tag."

"Oh?" John mused, leaning against the fence. "Reminds me of the old days. Except, you know, back then, there were real guns."

"Reminds me of my everyday life," Lestrade replied.

"Have many shootouts, then?"

"Oh, yeah," Lestrade said mildly, flashing John a smile. John returned it easily, watching the group of teenagers who had been playing exit the field. "Looks like fun."

"Yeah. There's always a sense of exhilaration when you're getting shot at," John agreed.

"Well, at least with this, it's not deadly."

"That's another good point," John laughed.

Greg sighed, pushing away from the fence. "Too bad we're too old."

John glanced at him. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Greg paused, looking at him. John returned the look evenly, keeping his face impassive.

"So, are you saying-" Greg started.

"Oh, _yes_," John replied, interrupting him and moving away from the fence. "Come on."

"What are you two doing?" Sherlock muttered, having finally trailed over to them.

"Laser tag, mate," Lestrade explained as they walked past.

John caught Sherlock's frown, but only looked at Lestrade, saying "Wanna go halves?"

"Sure."

"John, we're going back to the fish game," Sherlock said, giving John that 'you're a spectacular idiot' look.

"After tag, Sherlock. Don't wander off," John replied automatically, thumbing through his cash.

"Unless, of course, you'd like to join us."

At Lestrade's suggestion, John looked back up, first at the Inspector Detective and then at the consulting detective. Lestrade was smiling, a sardonic, sarcastic smile. Sherlock seemed to have frozen at the suggestion before giving a spectacularly dirty look to the them both.

"I have no desire to be affiliated with you and your stupid past times," Sherlock replied, leaning back against the fence and staring off into the crowd.

"For a minute there, I thought he was considering it," Greg muttered in a joking tone to John.

"No," John replied. "He won't even put on one of those things you're supposed to wear at crime scenes. How could he handle this?" he asked, tapping at their vests.

"Good point."

A bet, ten minutes, and four hits later, John scrambled to the ground behind one of the obstacles, panting for breath.

"Come on, John! You're going to lose!" Lestrade's voice floated to him over the bustle of the fairgrounds outside of the enclosed tag boundaries.

"That's- that's not even a _possibility!_"

"Actually," started a silky smooth voice outside the fence, and John jumped before he realized Sherlock was only six feet away, still leaning on the opposite side of the fence.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John hissed, attempting to ignore Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of his head. "I'm fine." He peered around into the course, scanning for Greg.

"Come out, come out... Wherever you are." Greg's voice again. God, he got taunting when they were playing. He was competitive- in a good, non-Sherlock, type of way.

"He's over here," Sherlock announced.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, turning on him. "Shut up!"

"Or what?" Sherlock replied innocently, smirking. "You'll shoot me with your laser gun?"

John groaned in frustration.

"He's coming, John. Down sit on your laurels!" Sherlock ordered.

John peered around the obstacle, just barely avoiding losing his last point when Greg appeared out of nowhere. "Right! Thanks, Sherlock!" He didn't realize Sherlock had really helped him until afterwards, during which he wondered what the point was when it had been apparent that he'd been helping Lestrade a moment ago. Not that he cared, as long as he stayed away from Lestrade-

"Gotcha!" he shouted, pulling the trigger on Lestrade when he snuck up behind him. He only managed to throw himself (he was really going to be bruised later, damn) out of the way before Greg whirled around.

"John, you-!"

The next ten minutes consisted of John employing Sherlock onto his team for an outside eye on where Greg was, and Sherlock running him back and forth. The comical thing was, John never caught one glance, somehow, of Greg. It was like Greg was avoiding him and he was avoiding Greg, seeing as how they were both down to their last point.

"Time's up, boys!" called the director of the laser tag course.

"But no one won..." John griped to himself, meeting up with Greg at the entrance.

"Good game, mate. Thought I had you," Lestrade muttered.

"By all rights, Sherlock helped me," John admitted. "He kept telling me where you were."

Lestrade frowned, looking at him. "Funny, he kept telling me where you were, too."

Sherlock was smiling when they joined him again. Smiling. Literally. Smiling.

"Sherlock, what was that all about? Were you on my team or Greg's?" John complained, trying to catch up with the detective as he started again for the fish game.

"I was on Team Myself," Sherlock replied calmly. "The team dedicated purely to watching two grown men running around an enclosed course, thinking they're going to 'get each other'," here Sherlock made air quotes, "when really I'm directing them both away from each other."

"Wait- _what?_"

Sherlock drew his coat closer, fingers turning up his collar. It was the only response that John got.

"So, basically..." John muttered.

"We just ran around looking like idiots," Lestrade finished. "But, isn't that what we normally do with Sherlock Holmes as our partner?"

John heard Sherlock laugh slightly, but, frankly, he agreed. "But, wait, who won the bet we made?"

"I think the only one who won anything was Sherlock, after all."

"Well, at least _he's _enjoying the fair," John replied, sharing a chuckle with the Detective Inspector.

* * *

**I know nothing about laser tag. But, I think Sherlock got a kick out of it. Lestrade's sticking around for one more chapter [I know I said that last chapter xD] as Sherlock returns to the fish game.**

**"You wasted a whole bucket of chances, Sherlock; you won't win. Just give it up."  
"Silence, John, don't doubt the superior mind."  
"This is rather comical, though, don't you think?"  
"He's ****_inspecting_**** the game, Greg. It's not funny; it's embarrassing! Look at all the people."  
"He is rather drawing a crowd, isn't he?"  
"Just throw the stupid ping-pong ball, Sherlock!"**

**Thanks for reading so far! Your reviews make my day!**


	7. Sherlock, You're Drawing a Crowd

"He never stops, does he?"

"He really doesn't. It's got to be quite detrimental to his health."

"Mmm. Does he, you know, sleep? At home?"

"Sometimes he does. Usually on the couch. Once I found him still sitting at the desk, head down on his laptop keyboard. Fell asleep like that. His laptop was off, though, so either he hit a button in his unconsciousness or else it just auto-powered off."

Sherlock spared John the quickest of glances, something like affronted embarrassment flashing across his eyes. John realized that perhaps he shouldn't have admitted that to Lestrade, even if the latter found it humourous.

"But, no, he doesn't sleep on a case unless he passes out."

"Not that I do that often," Sherlock replied, not looking away from the goldfish bowls. He was crouched on the ground, his chin resting on the edge of the carnival stand. He'd already walked the perimeter of the stand several times, judging distance or whatever else he was doing besides making a scene.

"It's happened a few times."

"Only twice, John. Twice. Once because my mind was incapacitated by drug, once because baser human need actually got the better of me."

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes got tired." John paused. "After _four days_ straight of no sleep." He had been bitterly concerned for his friend for those four days, and had even gone as far as threatening to spike Sherlock's tea with sleeping medicine. The result of that was Sherlock refusing to sleep _and_ refusing to drink. After the fourth day, however, John hadn't needed to worry any longer because his flatmate (flatmate's body, really) had decided to suddenly take a kip halfway through an experiment. John had monitored Sherlock closely after he had woken up (and, annoyed, had jumped right back into the case), but the solid eighteen hours of sleep his body had managed to squeeze in seemed to put life right back into Sherlock and he solved the case before the day was out. (He had actually gone to bed at a decent time that night, too.)

Sherlock grunted in response, standing to walk to the other stand of the stand again.

"Sherlock, just throw the ball," Lestrade laughed, leaning against the support of the carnival stand.

"Quiet," Sherlock returned, never looking away from his newest experiment.

"You wasted a whole bucket already! You won't win with the last one, Sherlock, it just won't happen," John stated matter-of-factly. Sherlock had already thrown one ball; it had bounced off haphazardly and thus led into this Sherlock-sized analyzation of the game.

"It's funny. He can't do anything in the normal fashion, can he?"

"Funny? He's drawing a crowd, Greg. Can't you, I don't know, use your police power and... get them out of here?" John questioned absently, passing a glance at his wristwatch. They'd been here four hours. No wonder he was tired.

"I could," Greg agreed. "But I'll let them see if he wins or not."

John looked back at the crowd as someone yelled "You can do it!". He sighed, although he wasn't able to help the smile. "Well, Sherlock isn't going to like it when they all start chanting for him to win."

Sherlock, however, hadn't even seemed to notice the yell. He stood fluidly, making his way back to John and Lestrade. "I've figured it out. A combination of the distance coupled with the material of the ping-pong ball and the glass bowls-"

"Just throw it," John and Lestrade said at once.

Sherlock frowned briefly before turning back to the booth. "As you wish."

John smiled softly, preparing to have a sulky Sherlock as his companion the rest of the night...

_Five minutes later_

"I _told_ you, John!" Sherlock boasted, all but obscuring John's vision as he showcased the small goldfish in the bag. "All it took was a careful consideration of all the facts."

John pinched the top of the clear bag and dislodged it from Sherlock's fingers lest he should shake the poor fish to death. "Yes, Sherlock. You have a goldfish. That we're not keeping, might I add."

"Oh, I didn't want it, anyway," Sherlock replied dismissively, although his eyes hadn't left the frenzied fish in the bag full of water since he had won it. "I just knew that the game could be won if one put the proper amount of thinking and analyzing into it."

"And you wanted to be a show off," John finished, grinning down at the little fish. "You know, it's cute. It's got these little black splotches."

Sherlock gave him a depraving look that caused John to lower the bag from eye level self-consciously.

"You said you didn't like fish."

"I never said that, I just... I always wanted a dog," John replied sulkily.

"Dull."

"What are we going to do with this fish now? We could let it go, in the pond, I suppose."

Sherlock reached down and plucked the bag from John's fingers again, pivoting to hold it out to Lestrade. The Inspector Detective had been out of the conversation, but watching them with a smile on his face. Now, he came to a standstill to avoid a fish-in-a-bag in the face.

"What?"

"Take it."

"Why would I want it?"

"Women like these types of things, don't they? Little... fish with black splotches," Sherlock said distastefully, mocking John's previous comment.

"Well, yeah, I guess. S'pose they do."

"Take it."

Lestrade took the bag, peering at the creature inside. "Yeah. I think the wife'll like it." He looked away from the bag to Sherlock. "Does it have a name yet?"

Sherlock now transferred the depraving look onto Lestrade before turning away and continuing down the fairway.

"Sherlock," John chimed in.

Sherlock turned, looking at him expectantly. "What?"

"No, not you," John said, waving a hand. "Name the fish 'Sherlock'."

"Why would you name the fish 'Sherlock'? That's my name," Sherlock replied. "I don't want to share a name with a fish. Much less with something that you called 'cute'."

Ignoring the embarrassment that John was quite sure Sherlock wouldn't let him forget for awhile, he turned to their third party. "Sherlock... Shirley... Lock... Lockie..."

Sherlock, ahead of them, made a noise of disgust.

"Lockie," Lestrade repeated.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock muttered.

"I like that. Then the wife can't question it so much."

"Why would you name a fish after _me_?" Sherlock demanded, falling back in line with them. "You don't give human names to animals!"

"'Lockie' isn't exactly a human name," John said easily, fighting the urge to laugh at Sherlock's bewildered expression. Giving the fish to Lestrade was a sort of touching moment for Sherlock, well, as close as he got to touching, anyway. Now, it had backfired on the detective in ways he hadn't imagined. Could it be that he was embarrassed? He didn't act like it, but Sherlock didn't do anything in the normal fashion.

Despite his better intentions, his laughter spilled over, prompting an even more bewildered look from their companion.

"I think 'Lockie's brilliant," Lestrade decided, grinning with John now.

Sherlock's head snapped from John to Lestrade. "_What_? You're actually following his suggestion?"

"What's the big deal, Sherlock? You'll never have to see the fish again," Lestrade said, holding the bag up. "Give your utmost goodbye to Lockie, now."

Sherlock only frowned and turned away, striding ahead of them once again. John and Lestrade were left together, both chuckling as John gave the Detective Inspector a high five.

* * *

**I sort of love it. xD Sherlock's utterly bewildered and annoyed at this latest development. And John and Lestrade are awesome, almost-taunting, but awesome friends.**

**"Ferris wheel?" "Hm?" "Want to... the ferris wheel?" "Why would I ride the ferris wheel with you, Sherlock?" "Why not? I want to deduce the wind speed-" "No, I'm not. Sorry." "What next, then?" "Oh, stop sulking. We'll go to the gazebo." "The... gazebo?" "Like I said earlier, the entertainment." "Oh, ****_wonderful_****. ... I could experiment more with the ferris wheel..." **


	8. You're Looking at Me Funny, John, Why?

John sank heavily onto a bench, sighing.

"What are you doing, John?"

John glanced up at the black-clad detective hovering over his shoulder. "I'm sitting, Sherlock. I'm tired."

"How are you tired?"

"Maybe because we've been here for, I don't know, too long?"

"You drag me here and then you want to drag me home. Can't you reach a point of decision in your mind?"

John just yawned in return.

Sherlock sighed just as John had, joining him on the bench. "And how long are we going to be sitting here?" he asked, his eyes trained on the gazebo in front of them. There was some movement, a few people milling about; an orchestra performance of sorts was about to begin.

"I dunno. Orchestra's getting ready to play, though. We can just sit here and listen for awhile, I guess."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock muttered, his eyes darting around the entertainment section.

John followed his gaze. There were a few people sitting around, talking, watching, relaxing. It wasn't particularly busy, so maybe the orchestra wasn't that popular? Oh, John couldn't even _begin_ to try to deduce the way that Sherlock did. So, instead, he just sank a little lower on the bench, raising a hand to cover his mouth as he yawned again.

By all rights, he probably shouldn't have been sitting here, planning to listen to music, because he was already tired. Sherlock could make him fall asleep just by playing his violin, if John was already tired. Orchestra performances were soothing, as long as the orchestra could play well. And the last thing he needed to do was fall asleep on Sherlock Holmes' shoulder.

Sherlock had appeared to give the section around them an immediate once-over upon sitting down, but now he had taken up a slightly sulking air, as if he didn't find anything interesting in the people around him. He had drawn his knees up to his chest and had wrapped his arms around them. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock proceeded to place his chin on his knees with a slight, disgusted sigh.

"Sorry that you're so bored," John said somewhat sarcastically, looking back towards the gazebo.

"I suppose it can't be helped," Sherlock replied.

They dissolved into silence. It was... nice, in an odd way. To not have Sherlock bustling around, doing one thing or anyone. To actually have Sherlock sitting down and not complaining. (Although John figured if they sat here for very long, Sherlock would, inevitably, start to complain.) Sherlock was calm. That was something that John rarely got to see, even though he lived with the man.

John yawned again.

"You've been drinking too much tea too close to the time that you go to bed."

"What?" John asked, shaking his head before he looked at Sherlock.

"You've been having trouble sleeping. If it was just a bout of insomnia, you would be up doing something. Most likely working on something for the clinic or, at the very least, catching up on the novel that you should have had finished weeks ago. So, it's been ongoing for a bit and you're not busying your mind because you still want to go back to sleep. You've been staying in bed through the night, even if you're just staring at the ceiling. It's annoying you, your annoyance keeps you from sleeping even more, and it all really starts with the immense caffeine intake that comes from you tea," Sherlock muttered, not even looking back at John.

John blinked, quickly going back in his mind to think about how much tea he'd been drinking. He hadn't noticed drinking any more than usual, or close to bed, for that matter, but they had had that case that had kept them going the past couple days that John had probably indulged in more caffeine than usual... But, nonetheless, Sherlock was probably right. He'd try cutting back on the tea.

"Yes..." John muttered. "I have had trouble sleeping, and yeah, I don't know, it could be the caffeine, I guess. I'll lay off."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied crisply. "You being awake during the night bothers my thinking process."

John frowned, now looking at him. Of course it all came down to what was good for Sherlock. Not what was good for anyone else.

Sherlock noticed the look. "Well, you think too loudly when you can't sleep. It interferes."

"Sorry, Sherlock," John said dryly, looking away again. "I'll try to turn down the volume."

Sherlock didn't respond, although the somewhat now-awkward mood (that John was sure he was probably the only one feeling) didn't have long to last as the orchestra began to play soon thereafter.

John was not going to fall asleep. He was so not going to fall asleep.

He yawned again.

No, he wasn't going to fall asleep.

He shook his head again and looked away from the entertainment and back to Sherlock.

Sherlock hadn't moved from his earlier position, asides from the fact that his eyes were now closed. John blinked slowly, watching the detective as he listened to the music. He just looked... peaceful.

God, how could John miss this? This little part of Sherlock that was totally calm and totally down to earth and utterly _normal_? He had lived with the man for so many long months now; how could he not know that Sherlock had this side? He looked less the part of the pompous consulting detective right now; he looked about ten years younger, somewhat vulnerable, and actually human. And _how_ had John never seen that before?

Sherlock was right, wasn't he? People didn't _observe_. Most people didn't even look.

John made a vow to himself to look at everything from then onwards, and to observe everything that he could, especially when it involved Sherlock.

Irritated eyes were suddenly staring back at John. Sherlock must have felt John staring at him.

"What?" Sherlock said, his tone all annoyance and irritation.

"Nothing," John replied, looking away.

"You were staring at me. Rather intently, I might add."

"No I wasn't."

"Yes, you were."

"Your eyes were closed anyways. You wouldn't know what I was staring at."

"Yes, I would, and you were staring at _me_," Sherlock repeated firmly. The haughty consulting detective was back. John smiled, faintly, to himself. Instead of responding, he just locked his eyes on the orchestra. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him for a moment before the detective huffed. "Denial is the first indication of the real truth, John."

John didn't respond, although he felt Sherlock's eyes on him periodically throughout the rest of the performance.

* * *

**The County Fair's been over and I'm losing my steam! Therefore, this story has almost reached a conclusion. But, until then, some tranquility for you all. I love to think of this side to Sherlock. The Sherlock's-a-totally-different-man-when-music's-involved idea comes from the original ACD stories. I have to give partial credit to Kuronoko Tsubame for Sherlock's deduction on John's lack of sleep- K, you're inspiring when you write Sherlockian deductions [especially when it involves John being sick :P]. **

**Thanks for reading so far, folks! I appreciate your time!**


	9. Sherlock? Hey, What are You Doing?

There was a sudden pressure against John's shoulder. John almost flinched from surprise, partially because he'd been trying to stay awake and hadn't been paying attention. He looked to his side, to Sherlock, finding... the man's head slumped against John's shoulder.

John's breath caught in his throat. Did Sherlock just... pass out? Okay, no, John, he was just fine, _think_. Sherlock had had the case on for the past week. John himself had been missing out on sleep the past couple of days because of the case reaching its dramatic conclusion, so it made sense that Sherlock hadn't slept for awhile. But- falling asleep during music? It just...

"Sherlock," he muttered, flicking his gaze between the gazebo and Sherlock's curly-haired head. "Sherlock, this is not the time nor place..." he murmured. With his free arm, he reached around to rouse the detective, but paused before he got there. He just couldn't... "Sherlock, you'll be the death of me..." he muttered, letting his arm fall back onto his lap.

He caught the gaze of an elderly old woman as she ambled by. John smiled faintly, although he quickly noticed the woman's eyes slide from John to Sherlock. She smiled knowingly. John frowned.

Oh, now people were definitely going to talk.

_Twenty minutes later_

"Sherlock... Sherlock, my arm's gone numb..." John murmured sleepily. He'd dozed off, a bit, although he didn't know if he had fallen asleep with his head on Sherlock's, and he didn't care to know, either. And now, his arm had gone numb from Sherlock's weight against it, and John was by far past ready to go home.

He shook the detective's shoulder, ignoring the slight guilt. (Sherlock didn't sleep much, so when he did, John hated to bother him, truthfully.) "Sherlock, please..." he grumbled. He frowned when Sherlock didn't stir. "You barmy detective..." he muttered, shaking his shoulder again, more roughly. Sherlock muttered something in his sleep, shoving John's hand off. "Jeez, Sherlock, this is why you should sleep regularly..." John muttered. "Well, fine. If you won't get up the easy way..."

John shifted out of the way, using his right hand to keep Sherlock propped up. John kept his hand there as he stood, ignoring the pins and needles in his legs as he did so. And then-

He removed his hand.

Sherlock toppled over, waking up somewhere in the middle of his falling over, John presumed, with a yelp as he tried to catch himself. John chuckled at him as Sherlock managed to catch the back of the bench, preventing himself from falling face-first onto the seat. And then John was really pushed over the edge of laughter as Sherlock looked up at him with confused, belligerent, and drowsy eyes.

"What are you doing, John?" Sherlock muttered, straightening to a more dignified position as he fixed his coat. "Can't a man catch a kip now and again?"

John once again felt the pang of guilt as Sherlock's words slurred somewhat with apparent exhaustion. It didn't stop him laughing, though. "Come on, Sherlock," he said, shaking his head. "Fairgrounds isn't such a good place for a kip."

"I would say differently, John. I was well into a state of unconsciousness," Sherlock replied, although he did stand without any further complaint.

"Let's just grab some sugar waffles and then we can go home," John replied, casting a glance towards the sky. The sun was beginning to set. What a long, interesting day it had been.

"Go home?" Sherlock echoed. "Why's that?"

"Maybe because you're falling asleep during an orchestra performance? On my shoulder, mind you," John reminded him, shooting him a disbelieving glance. Falling asleep at the fairgrounds and still asking why they're going home; only Sherlock would do that. Anyone else would be complaining that they had to walk to get waffles, that they wanted to go home and sleep. Although, John had to wonder if Sherlock would even sleep once they got home. He would be the one to fall asleep for twenty minutes and say that was enough sleep for three days.

"John, what's a sugar waffle?" Sherlock asked, seeming to disregard the latest development in conversation in favour of something that didn't focus on his own humanity.

"It's, uh, hm. You don't know what a sugar waffle is?"

"Obviously not." Sherlock drew his coat closer, slipping his hands into his pockets. "It was never involved in the work, so why would I care?"

"It's not involved in the work now, is it?" John mused, glancing again at the detective.

"Well, no," Sherlock said, "but this isn't work. This is... social," he finished dryly, looking around at the masses of people still around.

"Well, you've never been interested in social, why start now?" John teased.

Sherlock's whole posture seemed to deflate and he stumbled. John caught his arm in alarm, looking at him more closely. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied quickly, "'m fine."

"Sherlock, you look a bit pale," John replied, tightening his grip reflexively when Sherlock tried to pull away. "No, no, come sit down." Painstakingly, he got Sherlock onto a nearby bench. "When's the last time you slept, Sherlock?" he demanded, stooping over him.

"Erm, today's..."

"Thursday," John supplied.

Sherlock frowned. "Is it?" He shook his head a bit before shrugging. "A bit ago. Been busy with the case."

"You just don't want to tell me," John accused, standing straight. "You stay here, I'm going to hail a cab to wait."

"Wait, hadn't you said something about a waffle?"

"Sugar waffles are my least concern right now... Just stay here, Sherlock. I'll be back in second."

It was against his better to judgment to leave Sherlock sitting there, but, at the same time, he didn't want to drag Sherlock to the entrance until he had a car waiting for them.

When he returned, five minutes later, Sherlock was where he had left him, looking pleased, if not worse for the wear. John frowned as he approached, but when Sherlock noticed his return, he held up a bag that had none other than sugar waffles in it. Sherlock gave John a sarcastic smile that seemed to be equal parts _Look, I got sugar waffles without passing out from exhaustion; I told you I was fine_ and _Is this right?_

John only shook his head in mock annoyance as he helped the detective to his feet, although he made sure Sherlock received his grateful smile as he accompanied him to the cab.

* * *

**I picture Sherlock being the type of man who, when he falls asleep, doesn't wake back up so easily unless he does on his own accord. And sleepy!Sherlock is just grand. One more chapter, or two, if I can push it. Anyway, I think readers are getting burnt out on this, so maybe it's best to end it where it's still good. **

**R&R is appreciated. :) Thanks for reading. **


	10. Thank You, John You're Welcome, Sherlock

Sherlock stayed, obstinately, awake throughout the entire cab ride. Thankfully, the ride was short, so John didn't have to worry about lugging an unconscious consulting detective up the stairs to their flat. Not that John would have expected him to fall asleep in the back of a cab- it was too... improper for someone like Sherlock. John was almost positive that he was one of the only people who had ever seen Sherlock Holmes sleep.

Not that it had been entirely appropriate for Sherlock to tear into the bag of sugar waffles in the back of the cab, either. But he had, much to John's intense displeasure, scattering more than a dusting of powered sugar over not only their pants, but the back of the cab as well.

And then Sherlock had gone on to complain about the sugar, the _powered_ sugar, and the grease, and the texture of the waffle, and proceeded to tell John about everything that such food could do to one's body. By the time that they had arrived at Baker Street, John had tuned Sherlock out completely and was licking powered sugar from his fingers.

"Jeez, Sherlock, you're a mess," John muttered, casting a careful eye over the consulting detective as they stepped into their flat. Sherlock's coat was peppered with powered sugar, there was a thin coating of the powder laying his pants, and when he had stepped out of the taxi, a small cloud of white rained down like a miniature snowstorm in summer. Looking closer, under the light of Baker Street, John thought that maybe Sherlock had powdered sugar in his hair, too.

And all for what? Sherlock had decided, after first bite, that he hated sugar waffles.

"Might want to have a shower," John suggested, brushing the bits of sugar off of his own pants after depositing the rest of the sugar waffles on the kitchen counter. He walked back into the living room just as Sherlock finished hanging his coat up.

"No," Sherlock replied curtly, making an immediate beeline for the couch.

"Oh, no, you don't," John said, quickly cutting him off and catching his arm. "If you're not going to have a shower, go to bed."

"I was trying to," Sherlock retorted calmly.

"In your own bed, ta." John pressed his hand against the small of Sherlock's back firmly, giving him a gentle shove towards the kitchen. "You need a good night's rest. So you stop... using my shoulder as a pillow," he continued, lips creeping towards a smile.

Sherlock frowned in remembrance. "That was really rather rude, John. I was in a wonderful state of REM sleep..."

"Well, go back to your R-E-M sleep," John spelled out, "in your own b-e-d. I'll just fix things up out here and nip off to bed myself."

Sherlock sighed, like John was personally offending him by making him go into his own bedroom. "Don't patter about out here if you expect me to sleep."

"I'll try to keep the noise level at a minimum, although you don't for me."

"Could be worse," Sherlock replied, padding back towards his bedroom. "By the way, John?"

John glanced up from collecting his laptop from the table. "Yeah?"

"... Thanks. It was, well, interesting, to say the least."

John blinked in surprise, looking back at the consulting detective. Sherlock just looked tired, maybe a little abashed, and still worse for the wear with the powdered sugar. John smiled. "Yeah, no problem."

Sherlock nodded slightly, as if to himself, before vanishing back into his room.

* * *

**Sorry for the delay in this. I got busy with ****_Close Your Eyes, Count the Sheep_**** and I truthfully can say that I neglected this. I couldn't figure out how to bring it to a close, so I put it in the backseat for a bit. But, now, here's the ending. Hopefully, you've enjoyed the ride [fair reference? I think yes ;D] and I thank you for every fav/follow/review that you, my dear fans, have submitted. Thank you for reading, as usual!**


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